Familiar Strangers
by FloatyDucky
Summary: Mrs. Figg passes away. A man who claims to be her nephew moves into her house, and little Harry wonders why he seems so familiar. What he does know for certain is that he likes Mr. Lupin, and he especially likes Mr. Lupin's great black dog, Snuffles, who always seems to be at Harry's side when he steps outside. AU.


**A/N**: So, I finally joined Pottermore. And after feeling just a bit silly for joining a website that seems as if it was designed with younger people in mind rather than 20 somethings, I was bowled over with nostalgia. Like, seriously. It hit me hard. So I decided I give some HP fanfic a shot, even though I've been away from the fandom for a while, now… I've actually had this idea in my head for a long time. I know that the _idea_ has been done before, but I'm hoping my execution is a bit different from the others.

This is an AU. Sirius never went to Azkaban, but everyone still believes he sold the Potters to Voldemort. Everyone, save for one old friend…

**Warning**: minor character death.

**Disclaimer**: FloatyDucky does not own Harry Potter. All FloatyDucky owns are lots and lots of _feeeels,_ which she will now go and sob over, right over there in the corner…

* * *

**Chapter One**

It was just before Harry's seventh birthday when he learned that death looked a lot like sleep.

It wasn't unusual for Mrs. Figg to fall asleep on her lumpy recliner while she watched the telly. Sometimes she even fell asleep with a drink her hand. So, on that late summer afternoon, Harry didn't think much of it when his babysitter reclined back and lay very still while the news played. He'd even heard her snore a few times in the beginning.

Before, she had given him a toy mouse and told him to play with the cats for a bit while she rested her tired bones. Even though the mouse stank, Harry did as was told, at least until the cats grew bored and wandered off. Harry was bored, too, but that was to be expected when staying at Mrs. Figg's house. He wished he'd been allowed to go to London, where Dudley was going to visit an arcade and a sweet shop and a toy store and an ice cream parlor, but his Aunt Petunia had given him one dirty look that morning, and he hadn't even bothered to ask.

It would have been nice, at least, if Mrs. Figg had coloring books and crayons laying around, or maybe even a board game-_anything_ to keep a six year old boy content while she watched her shows. But there was only the cats and toys for the cats and a stack of photo albums that had pictures of the cats. There was also the telly, but Mrs. Figg always staked claim over it, so it was of no use to him.

So, after the last cat gave a final swat to the mouse and sent it skidding under the couch, Harry picked himself up from where he'd been lying on his front and went to Mrs. Figg. She was stretched out on her recliner, one hand loosely holding the remote. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open just slightly. She wasn't moving.

Harry stood by the arm rest, barely able to peer over the edge. He could see her face, because her head was tilted to the side and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. There was a bit of drool on her chin.

Wondering at her absolute stillness, Harry raised a hand to touch her arm- and pulled back in a hurry when the old woman took a deep breath. There was an odd sound to it, like a gurgle or a stutter, as if the air was having trouble passing into her lungs. Harry stepped back when she breathed out. He wrinkled his nose at the gust of smelly breath and turned away, towards the kitchen. Best to let her sleep. He didn't want to wake her only to be shown more pictures of the cats.

He was making a sandwich when the doorbell rang. He screwed on the top to the jar of mayonnaise that was too large for his hands and placed the dirty butter knife in the sink. The doorbell rang again. Harry peered around the square kitchen table, sandwich in hand.

Mrs. Figg hadn't moved. He could see the back of the recliner. The top of her greying bun was peeking over the edge of the headrest. Her hand and forearm were visible on the armrest. The remote hung precariously from her fingertips.

_Diiiiiiing-dong._

Harry took a single bite of his sandwich.

_Diiiiiiiiiiiiing-_

He put the sandwich down solemnly, knowing that he would not be allowed to take it with him, and walked up to the front door.

-_dooooooooooong._

"Well!" Aunt Petunia scolded once the door was open. She looked down at Harry as if he were a piece of poo one of the cats had dropped on the welcome mat. "Took you long enough! Come along, let's go-where is Mrs. Figg?"

"In the sitting room," Harry said, even though his aunt could very well see into the sitting room from the front door.

"Thank you for taking the boy again," Aunt Petunia said briskly, waving an impatient hand at Harry. "Dudders had a lovely time without him, and it is such a relief to have him off my hands for even a while, the bratty thing-Mrs. Figg?"

While his aunt walked in to wake Mrs. Figg, Harry stood on the welcome mat outside. He could see Dudley sitting in the backseat of Aunt Petunia's car. The round boy was sucking at a lolly that was too big even for his mouth.

Aunt Petunia screamed.

Startled, Harry peered around the edge of the door frame with wide eyes. Aunt Petunia came rushing out, a distinct look of disgust and horror on her face. She gasped for breath, one hand pressing daintily at her chest. Harry peered into the house again and had time to see the remote fall from Mrs. Figg's curled fingers before his aunt hollered at him to get in the car.

As Harry took his seat next to Dudley and watched Aunt Petunia cautiously walk back into the house, he thought with sickening guilt, _Maybe I should have woken Mrs. Figg up after all_.

* * *

"I don't believe you didn't know," Aunt Petunia huffed, tugging Harry's arm as they walked along the pavement to Mrs. Figg's front door. "You were there all day, and you never realized that the woman was dead? _Stupid_ boy. I don't believe it. I don't believe you didn't know."

"I thought she was sleeping," Harry said, pleadingly, as he had for the past three days.

"Oh, don't start that again. You thought she was sleeping. How could you think she was sleeping? She wasn't _breathing._"

At another tug, Harry quickened his pace. He stumbled over his too-big shoes and righted himself as soon as he could, looking at the pavement when Aunt Petunia gave him an impatient glare. He was wearing Dudley's old Sunday trousers and white shirt and dull black shoes. They were all too big for him, of course, and he felt a bit like the kitten Mrs. Figg had once dressed up in doll's clothing.

A pang of guilt struck him, and he stumbled again.

"Come along, faster," Aunt Petunia said. "I want to get this over with as soon as possible. I've things to do at home instead of giving condolences to people I don't know. We could have sent a card, if only I hadn't spoken to Emily from down the street." She sniffed. "Oh, she goes on and on, that rumor spreading, gossiping woman. _Oh, dear, Petunia, aren't you going to see her nephew? He arrived only yesterday, the poor dear. You bothered Figg often enough to at least give your condolences, Petunia, you know. And the dear, he's a bit handsome, my goodness-_ yes, well, we'll see about that."

When they reached the front door, Aunt Petunia released Harry's arm and pressed the doorbell. Harry could hear the faint _diiiiiiiiing-dooooooooong_ as he tried to straighten out his shirt. He wanted to look nice, at least, for the woman that had died while he ate a sandwich. It was probably is fault, like Dudley had said. Like all the deaths in his life.

_Diiiiiiiiiing-doooong._

Aunt Petunia huffed and pressed again, until finally the door opened and a sudden wave of surprise overcame little Harry.

There was a man at the door. He had brown hair that was combed neatly, but not quite as neatly as the styles Aunt Petunia forced onto Dudley's hair. There were a few grey hairs that fell over his eyes. He was smiling at Aunt Petunia, and even though Aunt Petunia didn't smile back, he kept smiling, though now the smile was different. Harry liked his smile.

Before he knew it, Harry was smiling too, vaguely. He'd known there would be a man in the house, Mrs. Figg's nephew who had rushed over as soon as he heard the news, but for some reason, Harry felt that he knew him. Had he seen him somewhere before? In a picture in Mrs. Figg's house? Mrs. Figg never had many pictures besides the ones of her cats. And he didn't look anything like Mrs. Figg, either, so that couldn't be it. He didn't know this man. Did he?

"Hello," the man said, and something stirred deep in Harry's memories. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Remus Lupin?" Aunt Petunia asked, eyeing the man up and down so discreetly that it took an expert to realize what she was doing. "Mrs. Figg's nephew?"

"I am," Mr. Lupin said with a nod. He was still smiling, though now it was a little more subdued. Still, not many people could hold a smile in Aunt Petunia's presence. Harry was impressed.

"I'm Petunia Dursley," Aunt Petunia said. She didn't offer her hand. Harry wasn't surprised. His aunt did not like to come into close contact with people who did not dress as properly as she and her family. This man was wearing a brown jumper that was perhaps too long for him-_In the summer?_ Harry wondered vaguely- and was definitely a size or two too large. His blue jeans were faded, folded up at the hems to reveal old brown shoes with neatly tied laces. His shirt was white and buttoned up and wrinkle free, and the material seemed too soft for it to be a recent purchase. Harry was reminded of his own wardrobe. Perhaps that was why this man seemed familiar to him?

"I'm so sorry for your loss," his aunt continued in faux remorse. "We knew her very well. She was a kind, wonderful woman…"

Mr. Lupin had been watching Aunt Petunia's pinched face when he finally looked down at Harry without looking _down_ at him as his relatives so often did. Harry had a moment to wonder at the kind brown eyes and gentle smile that seemed so familiar, when the man's eyes widened and he stared at Harry in equal, if not greater, wonder.

"Harry?"

Harry's eyes widened.

He had to be right.

He had to know this man, because this man knew _him._

* * *

**A/N**: This has no beta, and I barely edited it, so please let me know if you've caught any mistakes. It would be greatly appreciated. Thanks much!


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